


A Disgrace to the House of Finwë

by amyfortuna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, First Time Blow Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 11:25:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3379769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Fingon gets inappropriately drunk, then inappropriately hits on Maedhros, then asks inappropriate favours of Manwë. Somehow it all works out anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Disgrace to the House of Finwë

“That’s definitely enough of that wine, Fin,” Maedhros frowned, taking away Fingon’s half-spilt glass and looking at him sternly. 

Fingon was traditionally a happy soul who loved everything when he was in his cups, and sure enough he pulled Maedhros down against him, kissing him wetly. 

“You’re so pretty, Russ,” he said, slurring his words slightly. “How did you get so pretty, with the pretty hair, and the pretty eyes, and,” - he made a dramatic gesture toward Maedhros, nearly hitting him in the face - “all the prettiness that is you?” 

Maedhros raised an eyebrow. His brothers would have realised that the eyebrow was a warning, but Fingon, of course, did not. 

“You should be tucked up in bed. You’re a disgrace to the House of Finwë in this state, and we have to get you out of the public eye as soon as possible.”

Around them the Festival of the Trees was going on. Many people were dancing, singing, or just talking, all of them with glasses of wine. Even the younger ones, all the way down to the ones just a little younger than Fingon at age fifty-three, had their own wine glasses, and many of those young ones were cuddled up in dark corners with prospective future mates. 

Very much as he himself was with Fingon, in fact. But Fingon had pulled him into the dark corner, cuddled into him, nearly spilt wine all over him, mumbling incoherent nonsense about “Russandol, your hair in the Treelight would tempt a Vala,” and other such lovely, desperately desired, and meaningless phrases. Somehow Fingon said many things drunk that he never hinted at sober, and Maedhros was far too afraid to contemplate the thought that Fingon spoke to everyone he met this way once he’d had a drink. They were cousins, they were friends, and that was as far as it went. 

“Oooh, are you taking me to your bed at last, Russ?” Fingon said, trying to get up, arms flailing. Maedhros stood up, hauling his cousin with him. Fingon’s arms went around his waist and Fingon gazed up at him adoringly. 

“Your voice is entirely too loud, cousin,” Maedhros said, trying to be stern again, but at the same time reaching up and stroking Fingon’s thick dark hair off his face. He wore it free of braid or tie tonight, as he did very rarely, and it poured like a waterfall all around him, reaching nearly to his waist. “Yes, our house is nearest, so you are getting to sleep in my bed tonight.”

“Mmm,” Fingon groaned, nuzzling into Maedhros’ tunic. His lips grazed a nipple and Maedhros felt as though a shock of lightning had run through him. He was instantly, hopelessly hard. “Will you stay with me?” Fingon whispered, very low. 

Maedhros couldn’t even pretend to be the stern elder-brother type any more. “Yes,” he whispered back, very softly. He considered adding something about how it was just to sleep, but Fingon was already tugging on his arm, in the general direction of the Fëanorian townhouse. He followed with a sigh.

Inside Maedhros’ bedroom, the silver light was dim, shaded by the curtains at the window. His bed, a large one, finely carved, was neat and tidy, as was the rest of the room. Although Fëanor had servants, his children were responsible for their own rooms, and Maedhros always kept his in perfect order. He knew Fingon’s would be a different story, books and models and musical instruments scattered about hopelessly mingled with clothing and boots. It was another reason why he wanted to come here rather than take Fingon home. 

Fingon began shedding his clothes the minute he entered the room, boots abandoned by the door, tunic dropped over a chair, trousers on the ground by the chair. He was down to his underwear before Maedhros realised that this was an untenable situation. Fingon, naked, drunk, in his bed, willing and eager, what in all of Arda could resist a temptation like that? 

“Fin…” he began, stepping forward, but Fingon let out a cry of delight and rushed forward, throwing his arms around Maedhros again. 

“You are very much overdressed, pretty one,” Fingon said, tugging ineffectually at Maedhros’ tunic. 

“I think I probably should stay dressed,” Maedhros muttered. Then he took Fingon’s face in his hands, and said about half of what he meant to say, in a tone far different from how he meant to say it. “Shh, little sweetheart. Let’s just curl up together tonight like we used to, and maybe in the morning….” He couldn’t resist the open, inviting, look on Fingon’s face any longer, and bent to kiss his mouth very tenderly. 

It was little more than a chaste kiss, for all their lips lingered together, not wanting to separate. Finally, with a wrench, Maedhros tore himself away, Fingon dreamy-eyed gazing up at him. 

Maedhros moved out of the circle of Fingon’s arms, to the pitcher of water left on a nearby table. He poured two glasses, handing one to Fingon, desperately trying to put the older-brother mask back on, but somehow only managing the solicitous lover. 

“Drink this, you’ll feel better in the morning for it,” he said, and swallowed his own water quickly, setting the glass down again. Fingon drank slowly, a little water escaping and trickling down his neck. Maedhros forced himself to look away, not sure he would be able to resist licking the wetness away. He pulled off his own boots, just for something to do, and wandered over to the bed, pulling the light summer blankets back. 

Fingon finished drinking, and set his own water glass down on the table. His mind seemed a bit clearer now, and he wasn’t smiling like a fey thing anymore. He looked very tired and young, standing there in the middle of Maedhros’ bedroom, waiting. 

“Come here,” Maedhros beckoned, and Fingon came on legs that wobbled a little. Maedhros gently directed him into the bed, pulling one of the blankets around him. Tugging off his own tunic, leaving only his leggings, which were made of a soft material and could be slept in, he climbed into bed behind Fingon. 

Once in bed, and with Fingon no longer deliciously squirming against him, it was quite easy to imagine that this was any time before recently, when they’d spent too long chatting about art or music or languages and had curled up against each other, seeking only sleep. Fingon lay very still now, a little too tense to actually be asleep. Gently, Maedhros put an arm around him, bringing his hand to rest against the soft plane of Fingon’s belly. Fingon took a deep breath and relaxed then, falling asleep quickly and easily. 

Maedhros listened to him breathing steadily for a long time, dreaming mingled between past and hopeful future, between reality and fantasy. 

The light had shifted all the way from silver to golden brightness when Maedhros awoke. He was lying on his back, and Fingon had turned in his sleep, curled up against his side, arm flung over Maedhros’ chest. He looked contented and beautiful, dozing there. 

Maedhros must have made some sound, for Fingon stirred against him, slowly waking up. He blinked a few times, and his hand went to his head. 

“Ow,” he said. “Manwë, please, can you make the birds stop doing that?” He gestured faintly to the window, where birds were singing in riotous, joyful abandon. 

Much to Maedhros’ surprise, the birds stopped singing and took wing a few seconds later. 

“What have I always said?” Fingon asked the look of shock on Maedhros’ face, pulling himself up on one elbow. “Manwë likes me.” 

Maedhros could barely refrain from spluttering. “Yes, but you shouldn’t…that’s…you can’t -“ he was cut off as Fingon bent over him and kissed him soundly. 

“I think you like me too,” Fingon said, once the kiss broke. 

“Yes, but probably not the same way Manwë does, you cheeky thing,” Maedhros retorted, laughing despite himself. “I doubt Manwë wants to-“ he cut himself off at that, drawing in a great breath.

But Fingon was watching him earnestly. “Wants to what?” It was Fingon’s turn to raise an eyebrow. He slowly smiled, mischievously, and suddenly broke into a rhythmic childhood chant. “Ooh, do you _love_ me? You want to _kiss_ me? You want to _hug_ me…?” 

Maedhros could stand no more of it. Grabbing Fingon’s hair, he tugged him down against his lips again, not at all gently. Their mouths met with a crash, lips and teeth tangled together, almost biting at each other. Fingon wriggled against him, and he could feel his warmth, all down him, and a hardness pressing into his side. 

Breathless at last, Maedhros removed his hand from Fingon’s hair, breaking their kiss, and sat up in the bed, against the pillows. “Yes, you strange creature, I love you. I want to kiss you and hug you and do everything with you that you can imagine and probably some stuff you haven’t thought of yet,” he said, low and fierce. 

Fingon sat back on his heels. “Why didn’t you…? I all but threw myself at you half a dozen times. I hoped you’d get the hint,” he said, not quite meeting Maedhros’ eyes. 

“You were drunk, you mad thing,” Maedhros said. “Sober, you never hinted. Drunk, you were all over me. I thought it was just how you were once you’d had a glass. Hated the thought that you might be all over some other pretty young thing when I wasn’t there.”

A gleam of laughter came into Fingon’s eyes. “So you do at least admit you’re pretty?” he said. 

Maedhros made a show of checking himself out in the mirror across the room. “Wouldn’t be of the House of Finwë if I wasn’t pretty, now would I? But speaking of pretty, I’m not sure I got the best of the family, because, have you looked at yourself?” 

Fingon went red. “Oh, Maitimo,” he said, using the name quite deliberately. “What a subject for our first argument. Let’s stop it right now in favour of more exciting things.” 

Maedhros shrugged. “I’m not quite sure that it really got to the stage of being an argu-“ he was interrupted once again by Fingon kissing him. This kiss was gentle but thorough, deliberate and passionate all at the same time. Fingon climbed into Maedhros’ lap and stayed there. Time seemed to stop as Fingon’s hands tangled in his hair and slid through it to cup his face. When the kiss broke, Fingon nuzzled in against his neck, gently licking and biting the skin there. Maedhros groaned, forgetting to be quiet, forgetting anything and everything but the wonder of Fingon in his arms properly at last. 

Fingon’s eyes were dancing, and any trace of a sore head appeared to have flown out the window with the birds, once he raised his head again to look at Maedhros. Maedhros gently traced his lips with a raised finger, swollen from kisses already, and slid both hands into his tangled hair, drawing him close and licking at the ridge of the faintly pointed ear. Fingon shivered against him, slipping his hand down between their bodies to find where both their erections nestled near each other. Tugging at the cloth of his underwear, he untangled it from himself and threw it to the ground, but could not get Maedhros’ leggings off. 

“I want,” he began, stopping to shiver as Maedhros nipped with just a flash of teeth at his throat, “so much -“ he broke off again as Maedhros’ hand went to his nipple, rubbing it softly. “Oh, if you keep doing that,” he gasped out. 

“You’ll what?” Maedhros whispered against his ear, moving on from the nipple, sliding a hand down his stomach, bypassing his cock, but stroking his inner thigh gently. 

“Ah, you’ll make me, I’ll…” Fingon was all but incoherent as Maedhros finally put his hand where it was most wanted. 

“I’ll make you come?” Maedhros asked coolly, stroking Fingon’s cock with long languid motions. Fingon’s head fell back, and Maedhros breathed, “You should definitely come for me, then.” 

Fingon let out a desperate moan, thrusting forward into Maedhros’ hand, painting the front of Maedhros’ leggings with come. “Oh, Russ,” he gasped, breathless, “I - I wanted to last longer.” 

“Don’t worry,” Maedhros said, letting go of Fingon and sweeping a finger through the white liquid, raising it to his mouth and sucking it from his finger. Fingon took in a gasp of a breath at that sight. Maedhros licked his finger throughly, tasting the essence of Fingon, a deeper, more intense taste than he already knew from Fingon’s mouth and skin. 

“Get these leggings off,” Fingon ordered all at once. “I want to try something.” He tugged ineffectually at the leggings again, then Maedhros raised his hips, letting them slide down. Fingon pulled them off and threw them headlong across the room. They hit the door and lay crumpled on the ground, and Fingon turned back to Maedhros, sucking one of his nipples into his mouth, then releasing it, dropping his head and taking Maedhros’s cock into his mouth. 

Maedhros gasped with delight, flailing back against the pillows, suddenly overwhelmed by an armful of squirming cousin who licked his cock like it was giving him life. It was clumsy and awkward, Fingon had never done this before, clearly, but it made up for everything in enthusiasm. Fingon’s hair spilled over onto Maedhros’ thighs, teasing and tickling him with sensation. Fingon’s eyes met his and the look in them was burning, bright, breathtaking. 

Maedhros sank back with a groan, grabbing at Fingon’s free hand and holding it tight. And when Fingon showed an exceptional bit of promise and swirled his tongue around the head of Maedhros’ cock, Maedhros thrust up into his mouth and pulsed into him for what felt like an eternity. 

Much later, possibly days later, Maedhros came back to himself to find Fingon curled up against him, halfway to hardness again, smiling brightly. 

“Maitimo,” he said, and the name was a caress. “My Maitimo.” 

Maedhros, overwhelmed, could only take Fingon’s hand and raise it to his lips. “My Findekáno,” he answered at last.

**Author's Note:**

> I have spent quite a lot of time recently wondering why there's the whole Doom of the Noldor thing, where it's made very clear that the Valar Will Not Listen to anything any of the Noldor ask for, but as soon as _Fingon_ says a word, boom, Eagle.
> 
> Also I suspect that following this particular first time story, Maedhros nicknamed Fingon 'the Valiant' sarcastically and somehow it caught on.


End file.
